


Breathe.

by TheDarkFlygon



Category: Original Work
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Other, POV First Person, References to Illness, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 09:15:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12627789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkFlygon/pseuds/TheDarkFlygon
Summary: (Mature rating just to be sure)Some were going to use me, some were going to genuinely like me.The world is full of greys, and only some blacks and some whites exist out there.You are a strange shade of grey: I can’t tell if you’re dark or light.Maybe, you’re just both. You fluctuate between them. Sometimes you’re a light grey, sometimes you’re a dark grey: your motives are different depending on the situation.Just like everyone else, I suppose. Even I can be a dark grey.





	Breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> This oneshot is just a try at something else, kept short because I wanted a small break from my bigger works.  
> Deeply inspired by the song "Breathe" by Circus-P. 
> 
> I'm not exactly sure people would consider the stuff implied there as abuse: I personally do.

I used to feel like I was getting suffocated by something unknown to me. It was a horrible feeling of feeling endangered, preyed on, exposed to everything bad in the world. I never felt right: I felt like I was under attack, as if everything was out to get me as soon as I would even _blink_. That what you would tell me: that you were here to protect me against anything that could go against me.

Bullies.

Insults.

Hits.

Weaknesses.

**_Myself._ **

 

Sure, they were all telling me how weak I was. I got constantly reminded of that fact. Missing school wasn’t enough: I had to come back only to get asked the same thing over and over again. The nurse’s office had become my second home because I was safe there: not even the nurse was there to watch over me most of the time.

Then she would come back and remind me of that long, ever going list.

Fatigue.

Weak bones.

Anaemia.

Asthma.

Haemophilia.

 

I was bound to think I was weak. That everything was out to end me off once and for all. Forget about the pneumonias: you were the real threat to my health. Both physical and mental. One leads to a deterioration of the other. I found out at a high cost.

Do I remember you telling me to stop going to other people so I would avoid getting in trouble, or even worse, hit? Yes.

Do I remember you telling me to stop overworking myself until I would get sick? No.

You let me to that, because you couldn’t go against something: ambition.

 

You’ve always been ambitious. We’re both born in the lower layers of the Parisian middle class: you’re the eldest of two, I’m the middle child of four. Peer and family pressure have always been strong around the both of… Oh, wait, you didn’t have it. Your parents were supporting and loving, especially because you were their shine of hope in a time of despair.

I wish I could have gotten that support. My siblings loved me for who I was, but my parents always had a stare towards me. It’s not easy raising an ill child when you’re rather poor.

 

We were both ambitious, there’s no way around it. We wanted to reach the best we could, and we both did, right? I know you didn’t manage to attend the ENS, but you still reached the Sorbonne. I wonder to this day if you got envious of me for that. You were: how could such a weak guy as me reach that level when you couldn’t?

It’s not because I couldn’t do PE classes that I couldn’t do anything else. While you were having fun, socializing with other people than me, encouraging me to stay in a corner, I was working. Reading. Writing. Making friends elsewhere.

 

Your goals weren’t so ill-intentioned. You truly wanted to protect me. You were scared for me because I was sickly and because I was an easy target. You taught me some people really liked me for who I was, instead of always wanting to abuse me, you included.

You just became… suffocating after a while. As soon as I approached someone else than you, you would get scared, angry, jealous, any mix of the three or all three altogether. I grew afraid of you and of your words, so whenever you were missing, I have to admit… I felt a breath of fresh air.

 

Some were going to use me, some were going to genuinely like me.

The world is full of greys, and only some blacks and some whites exist out there.

You are a strange shade of grey: I can’t tell if you’re dark or light.

Maybe, you’re just both. You fluctuate between them. Sometimes you’re a light grey, sometimes you’re a dark grey: your motives are different depending on the situation.

Just like everyone else, I suppose. Even I can be a dark grey.

 

You grew overprotective. As if I needed a constant guardian, a white knight around me, or else I would die. You refused to let me alone. As if I was going to wither away as soon as you weren’t there. You wouldn’t accept me wanting to see other people. As if they were all going to kill me.

_I would drown if I wasn’t near you, wouldn’t I?_

The only thing which truly threatened my life was a badly healed pneumonia from when I attended Henri IV. I didn’t have time to heal myself: I had a competitive exam to prepare. You weren’t there, yet I survived.

 

The lesson I got from being with you, was that people could have good intentions but still do harm. It took me years, after we got further and further away from each other to the point we only see the other one once a blue moon, to fix back my broken image of self. I can only think my friends, workmates and students for this.

They’re all different shades of grey too. Some of them are darker, some lighter: they’re still all respectful and friendly towards me. I trust them and they trust me, and even if they don’t all like me for who I am because like everybody I have fatal flaws, it’s a mutual respect and it’s what I need.

 

I met people who felt like me, even if they didn’t have the load of illnesses coming with them. The least threatened I feel, the better my health is: even if I felt ill and still pushed me, they prevented me from being all alone and get worse and worse.

I never imagined people except for you would really care for me. That’s how strong your possession of me was. Your hands were around my neck all this time, yet you kept telling me those were other people’s fingers. You put a mask on both of our faces: you disguised yourself as a knight, I got blindfolded and played damsel in distress.

By wanting to rise my head and only look at you, you almost strangled me.

You became what you hate: a parasite, eating away someone else’s ego just so you could feel useful all the time.

 

I still don’t think you are ill-intentioned towards me. You still ask how I’m doing through messages, and I still think you’re a good friend to have around. You just… have to understand I’m not a fragile statue of glass.

I’ve never been as fragile as you made me believe. You kept telling me to be strong, as if I was never so, and got satisfied as soon as I did the simplest physical thing.

Maybe you were just trying to sympathize with your sickly buddy. All you ended up doing was hurting me. Your light grey intentions turned into dark grey actions.

 

I’m not that weak, Théo. I wanted to prove to you I was strong enough to handle myself: I just ended up trying too hard too many times. We all do mistakes and mature over time, I believe, and I learnt my lesson: pushing myself isn’t as effective as being cautious, and allowing myself some weaker moments so I can finish the race.

You have to learn your own lesson too: people don’t always need you.

**Author's Note:**

> Btw, "Henri IV" here refers to a prestigious Parisian high school (here, a preparatory class) and not to the actual king Henri IV.


End file.
